Growing to seed ...

There's a distinct sense in the air that the good weather is leaving us - the darker evenings (very dusky outside now, at 6.10pm), the pale grey blanket that was today's sky - to say nothing of the weather forecast for Monday and, as far as I can see, every day bar one for a fortnight. It was harder to take myself out this afternoon, though the sense of a morning frittered away was palpable, lessened only by a great half-hour of FaceTime with a friend I haven't actually seen since last summer -  or was it the previous summer? - and a decent score in my Duolingo Italian practice (got a "perfect" for my present tenses).

The afternoon improved, however, when I forced myself out of my chair and out to walk - joined for the drive to Toward by Mr PB, who then had a stroll as befits his condition, and met two sets of people we know. Meanwhile, I bashed along the road between the fields, watching a great flock of Canada Geese circling overhead in meticulous harmony as they picked a spot on which to land. As they landed they disappeared, blending with the muddy field as their white undersides vanished, though the noise they broke into left no doubt as to their presence. I saw a couple of low-flying raptors swoop over the cattle, and observed a proprietorial black bull with his two adoring cows (I made up the adoring). 

The photo is of the woodland along the Ardyne Burn, where, as far as I know, no-one ever goes; trees fall and are replaced, leaves fall and turn to soil, order is nowhere to be seen but nothing looks out of place. I thought of Hamlet's "unweeded garden that goes to seed - things rank and gross in nature possess it merely", and reflected that perhaps that's the difference between gardens, meddled with by man, and nature, where things just happen. Anyway, I love the detail of the golden leaves that my new phone picks out*, and the mossy trunks and general disorder.

Normally at this time of year I'd be expecting family to come and stay for part of their holiday. I think that's the very worst bit of the current situation - clearly one of us falling ill would be grim, but it's the biggest fly in my ointment to date. I think it's time to numb the feeling with a little tincture ...

*On looking at the finished post, I realise that Blip doesn't seem to publish the full-size file, as the detail is rather less wonderful than on the computer. Ah well.